


Alarm

by grandfatherclock



Series: Half-Seconds at a Time [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, Internalized fantasy racism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 22:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: Caleb takes a moment. Fjord takes a breath. They learn something together.





	Alarm

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a widofjord drabble! The prompt is _exchange_.
> 
> Regarding the _Internalized Fantasy Racism_ tag—Fjord has complicated feelings about the Orcish part of his lineage, and the fic references him resenting himself because he was bullied for being a half-orc.

Fjord _blinks _as Caleb gently reaches for his hand, and his exhale is more shuddering than he would've preferred as he feels Caleb’s thumb graze the scar on his palm. _Not intentional, it’s not intentional_, he thinks, already wielding that familiar incredulity at himself like a rusted dagger for even allowing for a half-second as Caleb pulls out his strange endless string that this could be _intentional_, that Caleb could be _intentional _with him. Caleb is saying something _now_, something _smart_, something about how runes channel the weave of the arcane and components allow the magic to manifest into _this _plane, the _material _plane, and he’s trying _so _hard not to make the words sound too big, too intimidating—

But Fjord is watching their hands, watching the way the silver string twists around his fingers as Caleb carefully intertwines Fjord’s hand in it. The string glows white, a contrast to his green skin that’s lighter on his palm and darker along his forearm, a contrast to his _sharp _black nails. His hand is _trembling_ slightly as Caleb finishes that pattern he’s woven, as Caleb now begins to tell him the arcane words to say to cast _Alarm,_ to make the string draped around the room _mean _something. Fjord, embarrassingly, trips over them, they’re so _unfamiliar_ in his tongue. Casting Uk’otoa’s spells was _different_, there was something _intrinsic _about them, and he feels so _stupid _sitting here, sitting with _Caleb Widogast_, their hands touching like it could ever be _intentional_.

“I’m sorry,” Fjord sighs, and he gives Caleb a sheepish look, trying to use his charming smile to cover how _disappointed _he feels. This kind of magic, the magic that comes from _books_, doesn’t come to him at _all_, and he knows, selfishly—because Caleb’s red hair in the soft haze of the afternoon makes him selfish, the shadows along Caleb’s face that provide such a _contrast_ to translucent skin makes him so damned _selfish_—he kind of wished this could be… something they shared. It’s pathetic. He can just _imagine _Sabien with his fucking lips stretched into an arrogant smile, a hand running through Fjord’s hair as he came close, nipping at Fjord’s lips. _Bit off more than you could chew, dearest?_ Fjord’s jaw _clenches_. “I didn’t mean to waste your _time_, and I’m… I’m grateful you tried to teach me. Thank you.” His voice is too uncertain, not assertive at all, and Fjord sometimes _wishes_ he kept wearing Vandren’s accent, Vandren’s _demeanor_, like the ill-fitting armour it was—he feels so _weak_, he can’t even keep his gaze on Caleb’s _face_. He watches the floorboards with all the interest in the world.

“Fjord.” Caleb raises an eyebrow, and Fjord tries not to sink into how Caleb says his name. Softly, the one syllable cutting through the momentary silence between their dialogue, something like an incantation, something like a prophecy. “You’re a good caster.” He says it flatly, without any lilting insinuation or eagerness that would make Fjord think he’s delving into pity—and _no_, despite how Caleb says it like a _fact_, he _still _feels pitied, _still _feels like he did on the playground when the other boys exchanged looks, knowing they would corner him later, knowing the wretched green of his skin would litter with red and purple, knowing he would find that _nurse_ later— “You’re a good _caster_,” Caleb repeats, and he’s leaning closer, a hand on Fjord’s shoulder. The warmth sinks through the fabric of his shirt, and Fjord can’t _believe_ his exhale is so _uneven _as Caleb watches intently, looking like he’s trying to decide something so very _complicated_.

Fjord watches as Caleb leans closer, and then closer _still_, and he’s _sure _he’s about to get Caleb picking out something in his hair, or maybe brushing some dust from the chalk off his cheek, something _else_, something that isn’t _this_. Then Caleb’s nose is brushing his, and he’s so damned _warm_, and Fjord's eyes _widen _as Caleb begins to _speak_. Each word has Caleb’s lips brushing against his, and it’s fucking… _everything_. Gods above, Caleb is _everything. _“You’re a good caster, _Schatz_,” he says, nearly _hisses_, and it’s so fucking possessive, so fucking fond, the heat in his pale blue eyes is so fucking _real_, and then his hand reaches out, curling into Fjord’s hair. It pulls him close, and then pulls him even _closer_, and Fjord is helpless against this. It's as natural as the waves lapping against the beach, smoothing out footprints the way Caleb leaning close, nearly leaning into his _lap_, smoothes out that writhing doubt for just a _moment_.

Caleb’s lips are warm against his, his hands gripping Fjord’s shoulders, and Fjord tries to believe him, tries to believe that he’s a good caster, tries to believe he _could_ be a good caster. Tries to believe in _Schatz_, believe in this kiss, believe in the curve of his smile.

It’s easier than he anticipated.


End file.
